


On Favors and Keeping Score

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, I'm a sucker for some John whump, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, No smut... Just cute adorable fluff, Sickfic, this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 11:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4477262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love the idea of John taking care of Sherlock when he's sick. But John's a doctor and it walks such a fine line between work and actual affection. Plus, I'm a sucker for John whump. And (from experience) doctors are terrible patients. Then again... Who else thinks that Sherlock has that tiny bit of patience for the right patient?</p>
<p>
  <i> John woke up to the horribly unpleasant sound of his clock alarm. Which meant he’d slept through his phone’s alarm. And for a moment he glared blearily at the noisemaker before smacking at it with his palm. Ugh, he felt like rubbish. The back of his throat was burning with the irritation that heralded a proper dose, his nose was threatening to drip every few seconds, and he had the uncomfortable flush that normally suggested a fever. Nothing high, just uncomfortable. Nothing deadly, just irritating. Nothing worth calling in sick with, just a full day of discomfort in the face of other people’s discomfort. It was going to be a day where he was forced to bite his tongue from telling people off. “You’re not as sick as I am, so off you pop.” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Favors and Keeping Score

**Author's Note:**

> No prompt, just a sicfic. And a bit of cuteness.

It was a last minute favor for Sarah, because he was bored, and because he restless, and because he remembered what it was like trying to work through clinics when too many people were out sick, and because he wasn’t a complete bell end. And because Sherlock was being Sherlock and it had reached a point where it was trying his patience. So yes, of course he said he could fill in for a bit. And yes, clearly he could do a week of day shifts.

Monday was perfectly normal, absolutely fine, and without incident. Tuesday was much the same, though he started to suspect there was a bit of a virus going around the crèches, since it felt like half his patients were under the age of two. By Wednesday, John knew there was a vomiting bug making the rounds in London. Not terribly uncommon for November, but bad enough to be considered an early outbreak. He narrowly avoided multiple episodes of bilious projectiles, and on his way out the door, he had to remind the staff to disinfect the wait room… very, very deeply disinfect. Thursday was much the same as Wednesday, three near misses with vomits, loads of snuffles, and, entertainingly enough, a very terse lecture on things that can and most definitely cannot be put up one’s bum. Sherlock interrupted on Thursday an hour before John was due to leave.

_Crime scene. Come at once. –SH_

John wrinkled his nose at the text. Clearly he was at work. That meant that one, he couldn’t ‘come at once,’ and two, Sherlock didn’t even say _where_ the crime scene was. John shrugged, crammed his phone back into his pocket and finished out the day. At half five, he collected his jacket and scarf, wallet, keys, and phone. And on his way out the door, he rang Greg.

“Lestrade.”

“Hey, Greg. Just done at the surgery. Any news.”

Lestrade sighed. “News? I don’t suppose you’d consider it news that he’s absolutely unbearable right now.”

John chuckled. “That bad?”

“Are you coming? I don’t think anyone else will be able to talk some sense into him.”

“Just tell me where, and I’ll be there.”

“You’re a saint.”

“I’m really not.”

“You know the CGP?”

“The one out in Southwark?”

“Yeah. That’s the one.”

John groaned. “Yeah, I know it. I’ll be there… When I get there.” It was the better part of half an hour before John made it to the park. And by the time he arrived, Sherlock was beyond agitated. He was actually manic, whirring in small tight circles as he gestured and snapped and hissed at whomever risked being close enough. John sidled up next to Greg. “So, what’s the story?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Dead body. Weird murder. Apparently the scene has been compromised, but my people haven’t even been in areas he’s complaining about. He won’t listen to anyone. He won’t actually explain any of it to anyone. And I’ve no idea what he’s on about.”

John sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “Right, of course he is.” He pulled his shoulders back and crossed the open patch of grass to reach Sherlock. “Alright?” he asked carefully.

“Oh, John, excellent. You’re less insipid than most. Could you please explain to these simpletons why it’s not possible for a dog to have mauled this person?”

John cleared his throat roughly. “Possibly. But you’ll have to fill me in first.”

“I already told you,” Sherlock hissed.

John crammed his hands into his pockets with a huff. “No you haven’t. I’ve just gotten here. Sherlock, we’ve been over this.”

Sherlock huffed angrily and glared at John. “John.” His eyes flicked over John’s shoulder and focused piercingly on something in the distance. “If… You’d just. When we…” His face twitched.

John half turned, glancing over his shoulder. “What? Sherlock, what is it?”

“With…” Sherlock took off at a run, dodging past John in a full on sprint. “Come on, John!”

“Dammit!” John took off after him. The night was crisp and damp, the air burning sharply at the back of his throat as he struggled to catch up. Sherlock had too much of a head start. And given that John had no idea what they were chasing, he hadn’t even seen the bloody thing that Sherlock was after, he couldn’t double back and cut them off, or get ahead of them, or even guess at what was happening. With a hissed out cuss, John came to a stop and braced with his hands on his thighs, trying to catch his breath. He coughed a few times and tried to listen for movement, for running feet or puffs of breath. And he heard absolutely nothing. He was too tired for this shit.

He heaved a sigh, coughed again, and fished his mobile out of his pocket, ringing Sherlock. It rang out. So he rang Greg again. And it rang out. So he muttered a curse up at the sky, and resigned himself to wandering back to the crime scene, by himself, in the dark. He started to retrace his steps, back around the pond or lake or whatever the brackish water was, back towards the police tape and crowd. God it was dark without the streetlamps.

“John!”

“Jesus!” John tried to steady his heart from the kick it’d just given. “Sherlock, bloody hell.”

Sherlock slid in alongside John’s brisk, military stride. “Can I borrow your phone?”

John huffed out a laugh, “Not terribly like you to ask.” He placed it in Sherlock’s open palm. “Where’d you get off to?”

Sherlock was busy typing on the phone, the bluish glow the only light in range. “Not far. I suspect the culprit has a bolthole of sorts in the nearby area. He’s gone underground. But never fear,” Sherlock flashed a smile glinting with teeth. “I’ve a plan.”

“Do you now?” John sniffed, but not without humor. “And are you going to let me in on that? Before, oh, I don’t know, I have to run off after you again?” He pursed his lips, trying to look as put out as he felt.

Sherlock’s grin grew impossibly wider and his eyes glittered. “Where would be the fun in that, John?”

John shook his head. Fucking typical. Sherlock’s hand extended, offering the phone back its rightful owner. “And what was wrong with yours?” He struggled to get his fist out of his jacket pocket. God he was tired.

“Forgot to charge it last night. Foolish overs-” Sherlock’s answer cut off in a whoosh as something barreled into him from behind.

Sherlock hit the pavement. Hard. And a disturbing mix of grunts and snarls erupted from the two bodies as they tumbled over in a heap. Sherlock ended up on the bottom. With a hand around his throat. And John’s shoulder connected with the body on top, right in the gut, proper tackle. And then John and the intruder rolled further from the footpath, twice overturning before splashing into the frigid water. As shocking as the icy bath was, John managed to get the upper hand, pulling his prisoner from the muck and damp with a forearm around his throat and the other twisting the man’s wrist high up his back.

The man struggled against John’s locked grip for a moment, hoping to knock them both down on the wet grass; until John growled low in the man’s ear, “I’m tired. I’m wet. And I’m not the police. Knock it off, or I’ll drown you in the pond.”

Sherlock smiled, perhaps indecently, and proudly led the sodden pair back to Lestrade. To his credit, Lestrade only did one double take at John’s state, probably glad John didn’t have his gun this time and continued to demonstrate restraint when the man was bellowing curses and insults. By the time the man was cuffed and Sherlock’s tirade had lost most of its venom and practical information, John was shivering. “Sherlock,” he complained softly, shifting in his now bitterly cold and wet jeans, his squidging shoes, hell, even his jacket lining was dripping with mucky water.

Lestrade frowned. “You probably ought to get into something warm and dry, mate.”

“Ta,” John rolled his eyes and crossed his arms tighter across his chest, trying to keep whatever heat he had left in. “You two done yet?”

Sherlock scoffed, but Lestrade jumped in before he could argue. “How are you getting home?”

John glanced down at his shoes. “I suppose none of the cabs will take us.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Tube is out of the question. It will take too long.”

Lestrade sighed heavily and fished out his keys. “C’mon, I’ll give you a lift. I can meet them back at the Yard.” He gave John a wry smile. “Might have a blanket in the boot.”

“That’d be lovely.”

“If not, you’re riding in the boot.”

John huffed and coughed and nodded. He really, really needed a warm bath, and out of the soaked jeans, and maybe a hot whiskey. Thankfully, Greg did have a blanket in the boot. So John agreed to sit on a bin liner in exchange for the warm fleecy comfort. And Greg insisted he keep the now filthy thing and only return it once it was laundered. And John laughed. It was only fair. And when they made it up the stairs, John went about the most urgent and pressing things first: bath, pajamas, hot whiskey. Sherlock ordered a takeaway, but once the whiskey was done, John felt quite done in himself. He picked at the food for a few minutes, then boxed it up and put it away for lunch tomorrow. One more day in clinic before the weekend.

John woke up to the horribly unpleasant sound of his clock alarm. Which meant he’d slept through his phone’s alarm. And for a moment he glared blearily at the noisemaker before smacking at it with his palm. Ugh, he felt like rubbish. The back of his throat was burning with the irritation that heralded a proper dose, his nose was threatening to drip every few seconds, and he had the uncomfortable flush that normally suggested a fever. Nothing high, just uncomfortable. Nothing deadly, just irritating. Nothing worth calling in sick with, just a full day of discomfort in the face of other people’s discomfort. It was going to be a day where he was forced to bite his tongue from telling people off. “You’re not as sick as I am, so off you pop.”

He grumbled and got out of bed. He showered, dressed, managed to swallow a cup of tea and choke down some toast before deciding that a dose of paracetamol wouldn’t go awry. His mobile was on the kitchen table with a post-it attached: _Could you please endeavor to not leave this in my pocket when a morning alarm is set? I know how you harp on about my sleep schedule. –SH_. John shook his head. Ungrateful git.

He remembered a scarf and gloves at the last minute, remembering how cold his hands felt last night. His black jacket was still damp and clearly needed a laundering before it could be worn again, so he donned his oversized wax and headed into the clinic. One more shift and it was the weekend.

The day was excruciating. The pre-weekend rush was overwhelming, the number of minor colds was absurd, and the number of whingeing patients was just too much. The few with vomiting bug that lacked the constitution to keep from vomiting into the exam room rubbish bin was unacceptable. And the lingering smell of sick actually made John break out in a visceral sweat. And by five, John was wrung out. He robbed another dose of paracetamol from the drug press and swallowed it with water that struggled around the burning lump in his oropharynx. Miserable. He didn’t bother with the tube; just hailed a taxi and tried not to doze on the ride home. The stairs actually seemed like a challenge, but John made it to the top and tried to decide if face planting into his bed was worth the next flight.

“John, you said you’d make tea two hours ago!”

He sighed. Right. He pushed into the sitting room and struggled out of his jacket and scarf. “Sherlock,” his voice rasped from overuse and inflammation. “I’ve been in clinic all day. Make your own tea.”

Sherlock sat up from the couch with a scowl. “But your tea tastes better.”

John huffed, coughed, sniffed, and shook his head. “That is chemically improbable. I’m shattered, Sherlock. I just need some food and sleep. Please don’t be lazy tonight.”

Sherlock’s scowl deepened into a frown. “You’re not well.”

“All of London is sick. I’ll be fine,” he groused.

“Is this from landing in the pond last night. I maintain that was totally unnecessary and I would have had him momentarily.” Sherlock pushed up from the couch and crossed the room to invade John’s personal space.

“Being wet and getting sick are correlational, not causational.” John crossed his arms and tried to pull to attention, but his muscles just didn’t seem to want to cooperate. His left shoulder gave a twinge of objection and he felt it in his leg.

Sherlock studied John’s face in spite of the angry glare that met him. “Go take a bath. You’ll feel better.” John winced. Sherlock was probably right. Hell, he was always right. And that made him more cross. And somehow Sherlock knew that too and rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, John. I’ll make some tea for when you’re done. I’m not completely incapable.”

John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Okay. Right.” Actually, a bath sounded really good. He dragged himself up the stairs to collect a change of clothes and was back downstairs in time for Sherlock to emerge from the bathroom.

“Turn off the taps before the room floods,” he said briskly and swanned into the kitchen.

John flashed him a tired half-smile, “Yes, Sir.” He didn’t miss the flush that crept up the back Sherlock’s neck. Interesting. He shook it off and headed into the bathroom. He took a long bath. He waited until his fingers and toes were pruned and the water was going tepid. It seemed to stabilize his core temperature enough to feel a bit more human. And when he emerged, Sherlock had set out the reheated leftovers, lit a fire in the fireplace, and was finishing with tea. “Oh.”

Sherlock tilted his head toward the partially cleared table in the sitting room. “Sit.”

Oh. Right. Ok. John pulled out a chair and flopped into it. Pleasantly surprised as Sherlock set a fresh mug in front of him. He blinked at the light and creamy color.

“Don’t pout. It’s chamomile and honey. It will help your throat. You certainly are not deficient in caffeine.” Sherlock settled in the chair opposite him at the table.

“How do you know my throat hurts?”

Sherlock cocked a brow.

“Right,” John hummed and took a sip of the tea. It was pleasant. And the honey was nice. And the sweet calmed the odd churning in his gut. He turned his attention to the food and made a mental tally of how much he’d eaten on the day. It wasn’t much more than toast and a few crisps; and he wasn’t feeling terribly hungry. That was a bad sign. He needed food. He picked up his fork and ate two bites; the churning in his gut kicked back up and he clenched his jaw.

“Alright?”

“Hm?” He raised his brows.

Sherlock waved a hand flippantly. “You don’t look… right.”

John shook his head and struggled to manage another bite. It was a horrible mistake. He felt the instant clutch of his stomach as the food kicked back up his gullet. “Shit.” He made a mad dash for the loo, slamming the door and dropping to his knees in time to vomit out the little food that had made it down. Ugh. Gross. Leftover takeaway was not something to be tasted twice. He retched again, and folded further, his bum landing on his heels. He stretched carefully to flush the toilet and braced himself as the cold sweat and brief vertigo washed over him.

There was a very gentle tap on the door. “John?”

He let out a heavy breath through his nose. “Fuck o-” he clamped his mouth shut against a renewed bout of sick, but ended up heaving again. There was the tea and the water. Nothing much left now. He gave a miserable groan and let his forehead rest on the back of his hand, which sat carelessly on the close edge of the toilet seat.

“John?” Sherlock rapped again.

He could feel it, building in his rebellious stomach. He’d be sick again, it was only a matter of time. He clenched his teeth through what felt like backwards peristalsis, wave after wave of rejection of his insides, the sweat pricked his forehead and actually ran down his back, and he just wanted to be sick and be done with it. He gagged twice and then vomited. He coughed, spit the bile from his mouth and slumped against the wall, letting the chill of the tiles and outside wall at his back cool him until he shivered.

Sherlock knocked again, but pushed the door open without waiting to be let in. “John?” John grumbled and hung his head, just breathing against the intermittent nausea. “Can… Is there…” Sherlock hovered indecisively in the door.

John sighed and tried to glare. But his fatigue left him with a heavy lidded look of despair. He swallowed, “Flannel, damp, tepid water.” It was the best he could do right now. Apparently he hadn’t avoided the vomiting bugs plaguing the clinic. Thank God it was the weekend. Sherlock handed him a flannel and John cautiously wiped the back of his neck, his forehead, his face, the insides of his wrists. At least his stomach had stopped clenching; probably momentarily, but it was a small blessing.

“Up,” Sherlock held out his hand.

John glared at the offered assistance. “I’ll just get you sick. Leave off. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “When have I ever gotten sick?”

John huffed, but winced at the way it shook his abdomen. “It’s vomiting-bug. It won’t be put off by sheer physiological neglect.” He took the hand and let Sherlock pull him to his feet. He staggered and planted his hands against the sink to steady himself.

“Maybe you caught it from that swim last night,” Sherlock offered.

“It’s not…” John sighed. He didn’t think he had the argument left in him. Oh. That wasn’t what Sherlock meant. “I don’t think it’s a parasite. Thanks for the thought though. That’ll help me sleep. So, ta.”

“You think you’re done?”

John turned on the tap to rinse his mouth and took an extra moment to collect himself before pushing off the counter and turning towards the door. “Hopefully.”

Sherlock nodded. “Stairs?”

John gave a deliberate scowl. “I can make it up the stairs just fine.”

Sherlock didn’t look convinced, but he moved out of the way nonetheless. “Your call.”

“Just,” John trudged towards his room. “Can you put away the food?”

“Put away?” Sherlock chuckled. “I’ve binned it on the off chance it’s caused your gastric distress.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, it’s not for you. You’re already compromised. I wouldn’t want to accidentally ingest something myself.”

John gave a weak smile. “Right. Well. Thanks.” He pulled himself up the last of the stairs and to his room. He should probably tidy things, consider laundry, get a glass of water. But his bed was just too tempting. He pulled back the sheets and curled up, shivering in the lack of heat for a few moments. He’d be sweating in a few minutes. He knew it was the fever, but he still felt cold. Ugh, it’d been years since he’d let something like this touch him. So much for that immune system. He winced as his stomach gave a small heave and took a few shallow breaths before the nausea passed. Sleep. He just needed to sleep.

Twice in the night, he woke and stumbled down the stairs to be sick again. The first time, he’d been well asleep and woken with only moments to make it to the loo. There wasn’t anything new in his stomach to eject, but apparently stomach acid and bile was too much for his gut. Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, apparently deep enough in his mind palace that it hadn’t registered. And it was a long slog back up the stairs.

The second time it was nearly three and John was well awake. He’d been haunted by fever dreams of blood and death and destruction and upon waking from the last one, he knew he’d be sick. Knew he’d be sick eventually, but not right away. He stumbled, literally, practically tumbling down the last three stairs and bounced weakly off the wall before making it into the loo. He spent an agonizing ten minutes on the floor, waiting for the sick, then retched numerous times before bringing anything up. God he felt miserable.

His legs seemed a bit shaky after that, and his gut was viciously unsteady and rather than risk making it halfway up the stairs only to need to come back down, John just pulled a fresh towel out from beneath the sink and laid down on the cool tiles. Yeah, this was better. It was probably only ten minutes before he battled back upright to vomit again. He whimpered and dropped flat on his back, closing his eyes and silently cursing the way the floor seemed to be tilting. He dropped a forearm over his eyes, hoping he’d just pass out and wake up when it was over.

“John.”

He groaned and flapped his hand against the floor.

Sherlock made a tisking sound and must have entered the bathroom. “John,” he murmured from too close by. “You can’t sleep in the loo.”

“Sod off,” he hissed. There wasn’t much venom in his voice, but then again, there wasn’t much of anything in his voice.

“Come on, John. You’re not staying on the floor.”

Sherlock’s hand came to rest on John’s shoulder, and John tried to growl. It sounded like a whine. “Leave m’lone.”

“And you accuse me of being stubborn and neglectful.”

John started at the cool, damp when it first hit the back of his forearm, but couldn’t muster the strength to throw it back. “Git.”

“Hold that,” Sherlock said simply, and slid an arm under John’s shoulders.

John flailed momentarily, clutching the flannel in one hand and managing to catch Sherlock’s tee shirt in the other. “Fucking warn a bloke,” he grumbled, heaving a breath as he made it upright again.

“Idiot,” Sherlock smiled. “Come on, you’re getting up.”

“I can…”

“Clearly,” Sherlock let John sway on his feet as proof before sliding an arm around his waist. “You’re perfectly capable of minding yourself. But this is easier.”

It was a mixed sound, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and John tried to focus on his feet and keeping them separate and not occupying the same patch of floor. He wasn’t really paying attention to where they were going. It hadn’t seemed particularly relevant until Sherlock sat him on the edge of a bed. But there hadn’t been stairs. He furrowed his brow and glanced around. “Your room?”

“You are in no condition to be up and down the stairs. I will not watch you be so stubborn as to actually fall down them.”

“I wouldn’t…”

Sherlock took the flannel from John’s hand and stooped to look him in the eye. “You practically did already. Don’t lie to me, it doesn’t work.”

John shook his head. “Where will you sleep?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth pulled back. “Sleep? John, I’ve far too many things to work on tonight. Now take off your shirt.”

He had been following the conversation, he was sure of it. It had made sense until that last sentence. “Wha?”

“Your shirt, John. You’ve sweat clean through it. Get rid of it; I’ve a clean one here.”

“Oh,” John struggled with it. His arms just didn’t seem to want to cooperate and somehow he got tangled with it half on, half off. And he deeply hoped Sherlock’s chuckle was affectionate, because he couldn’t really handle anything cruel at the moment.

“Here,” Sherlock freed him quickly and tossed the shirt off somewhere into the corner. John watched it fall almost absently. God he was so tired. Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around his chin and turned his face back forward. “When is the last time you took an anti-pyretic?”

John blinked. “Work,” he croaked. “Just before I left.”

Sherlock hummed and passed the flannel across John’s forehead. John closed his eyes and sighed. It was clinically efficient, but calming as Sherlock wiped the patina of sweat and sick from John’s face, his neck, his shoulders and back, down his arms. “Here, can you put this on yourself?” John looked at the tee shirt pressed into his hands and nodded. It went slightly better than trying to remove the old one. He felt just the smallest bit more human. “Do you think your stomach would tolerate some calpol?”

John grimaced. “No.”

Sherlock hummed again. “There’s always suppositories.” John’s sound of disgust was far tamer in light of his discomfort. And Sherlock chuckled. “I am joking. Get in bed.”

The objection in John’s mind died rather quickly as Sherlock climbed into the bed behind him and manhandled him into a cocoon of blankets. “You’re going to get sick,” John complained.

“I won’t,” Sherlock answered simply. “Go to sleep, John.” Arguing seemed pointless at that point. His arms seemed to have given up, and the weight of the duvet was too much to fight. But he grumbled on principle. Sherlock chuckled in response. “You cannot even keep your eyes open. Sleep.” And John thought, that for a fraction of a second, he felt fingers rifle through his hair as Sherlock left the room and shut the door gently in his wake. And he was asleep before the music started.

He woke again before dawn, with palpitations and a choked off scream. He sat up too quickly and nearly collapsed in the wave of dizziness and disorientation before he realized he was still in Baker Street.

“Lie down before you hurt yourself.”

As good of an idea as it sounded, John couldn’t seem to bring himself to comply. “Why am I here?”

Sherlock raised a brow and set a plate on the bedside table. “Because I put you here.” And then he crossed to the far side of the bed, clicking on the lamp in the process.

“I should…” John rubbed at his face and groaned. “Wait, what?”

Sherlock ignored him for a moment and fluffed the pillows on his side of the bed, making himself rather comfortable against the headboard. “Give yourself a moment and I’m sure you’ll remember. You’re just unsettled from the pyrexia. Which, frankly, I’ve had enough of.”

John snorted and it made his head hurt. He thought about collapsing back into the bed, but an uncontrolled descent seemed painful as well. “You and me both.”

“Here.”

John blinked at the mug Sherlock held out. He furrowed his brow and took, his hands shaking enough that it required both hands. He sniffed it gingerly.

“I drugged it,” Sherlock said flatly. “It’s lemsip. But do drink it slowly and perhaps if you could struggle to stomach one of the Tuks on the table, you won’t vomit this time.”

“Is the lemsip the only drug in it?” John took a tentative sip.

“No.”

“No?” He really didn’t care. He felt so wretched that anything that would get absorbed before another round of vomiting was welcome.

“I crushed up a Zofran as well.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and was focused on something on the screen as he tapped away at the keys.

“Oh,” John took another sip.

Sherlock held out his hand and John blinked at it. “The mug. Give me the mug and sit back against the pillows before you spill all over my duvet.”

He frowned. Rude. But he was trembling. Oh. With a sigh, he handed over the mug and shifted back against the pillows. His muscles seemed to sigh in relief. When had everything started to hurt? Sherlock passed back the mug and John took his time, sipping slowly, and breaking small bits of cracker off to try. The salt was good. It took the better part of twenty minutes to finish the ‘tea,’ but he did feel a bit better for it. He set the mug aside and contemplated making a break for his own bed.

“No. Don’t even think about it.” Sherlock’s hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him down into the mess of bedding.

“Sherlock,” he complained, shifting against the pillows and duvet.

“Do you know, you are the most rubbish patient I’ve ever seen?” Sherlock snatched a pillow and planted it firmly next to his hip. And by some rapid and probably sneaky movements, had John’s head on the pillow before he could fight back.

“You delete being sick,” John grumbled back.

“I would never be this fractious. Now go back to sleep.”

The light clicked off and John heaved a sigh. It wouldn’t be a terrible burden to fall back asleep, but if Sherlock thought he somehow was the pinnacle of cooperation when he was ill…

Sherlock’s fingers stroked through his hair, soothing and wheedling at the same time. “Hush. I can hear you thinking from here.”

“Brat,” John mumbled.

Sherlock hummed something of a response, his fingertips ruffling back and forth in an absent, tactile practice. And it felt too good for John to really argue. And when he fell asleep, it was calm, and restful, and thankfully void of nightmares.

It had to be mid morning when he woke again. His head felt fuzzy and Jesus, something must have died in his mouth. His throat was raw and aching and muscles in his abdomen and back were complaining from use in a way they seemingly opposed vehemently. He searched the bedside table for his clock, blearily realizing it was missing before he noticed he wasn’t actually in his own room.

“I see the fever has broken.”

“Mmpf,” John pressed his face into the pillow before turning toward the voice. There was daylight pouring in through the windows and it seemed overly bright.

Sherlock raised a brow when John finally managed to crack his eyes open. “Feeling better then?”

“I feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“You’ll feel better after a shower and some food.”

John’s stomach gave a rumble of hunger and disapproval. He groaned. “Maybe. What time is it?”

“Ten.” Sherlock slid out of the bed and headed for the door. “Get up, have a shower. There are clean clothes on the counter in the bathroom. I’ll make you something to eat.”

John stared at the open door. Maybe he was hallucinating.

“If I let you sleep all day, you won’t sleep tonight. Don’t make me roll you out of the bed. It will be far less pleasant.”

Well, that seemed more like it. He took his time getting out of bed, careful of the dizziness and the hypotension, the unsteadiness of his legs. He made his way to the loo and cautiously went about his morning ablutions. He managed a short shower, feeling better for being clean, and was brushing his teeth before he realized the bathroom was clean. Not just clean, spotless. Sherlock must have disinfected it during the night.

Dressed in clean pajama pants, a fresh tee shirt and pants – Sherlock had been rooting around in his room again – he wandered out into the kitchen. “Feeling better then?”

He gave a weak smile. “Yeah, actually,” and scratched the back of his head.

“Think you could stomach a bit of food?”

“You’re trying to make me eat?” he gave Sherlock a wry smile.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Sherlock produced a cup of weak tea and a plate with toast and a thin scraping of jam. “Come along.”

John followed him into the sitting room and sat gingerly on the couch, acquiescing out of exhaustion and confusion more than anything. He picked at the toast and drank the tea, focusing on the food as a necessity. When he was done, Sherlock cleared the crockery and returned with a pint glass of watery juice, paracetamol, and the comforter from his bed. John blinked up at him. “Afraid I’d get crumbs in the bedding?”

Sherlock smirked, “Didn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers last night.”

John croaked out a laugh as he swallowed the tablets. “You didn’t, did you?”

Sherlock settled himself in the corner of the couch, his laptop perched on the arm as he clicked on the tv. “I’ve work to do, but the noise won’t distract me. Feel free to pick something insipid, it quite amuses me that you can tolerate such things.”

It was almost sweet. John smiled and burritoed himself into the duvet and flicked through to find an action movie. He woke a short time later, the movie over, and Sherlock prodding him gently in the arm. “Up. You need to eat more today, or you’ll still feel miserable tomorrow.”

John grumbled. “What happened to the movie?”

“Someone stupid did something that defied the laws of physics and impracticality won.”

“Ah,” he shuffled free of the duvet and made for the loo. Good thing his kidneys seemed to be working. Emerging and heading back through the kitchen, he noticed his linens neatly folded on the kitchen table. “Sherlock?”

“Oh, yes. They were filthy. They’re clean now. Your comforter and Lestrade’s blanket should be back from the cleaners in the afternoon.”

“Oh.” John nodded slowly.

“Come, eat something. But if you fall asleep again, try not to snore. It’s more distracting than the ridiculousness you leave on tv.”

Eating something turned out to be a bowl of consommé, another slice of toast, and a very small block of cheese. Frankly it was perfect. And Sherlock set out another full pint of juice before scowling at the sound of his phone. “Problems?” John asked softly.

“Lestrade has paperwork from Thursday. I’ve told him it will keep over the weekend, but he seems rather insistent. Would it disturb you too much if he brought it over here?”

“You didn’t go in on Friday?”

Sherlock’s look of disgust was an answer in and of itself. “I don’t do paperwork.”

John chuckled. “’Course not.” He pushed his plate away and sighed. “I don’t see why it would be a problem if he brought it here. We could return his blanket.”

Sherlock made an odd sound, but nodded. “Efficient. Of course.”

John burrowed back into the duvet. “I aim for efficiency.”

“You work for the NHS,” Sherlock scoffed.

“I work with you,” John retorted, and clicked through the channels to find something mindless.

He woke up again a few hours later to the low sound of Sherlock grumbling. He made a questioning sound before bothering to open his eyes. It was, after all, quite possible that Sherlock was talking to him whether or not he was actually conscious. A warm hand covered his shoulder. “Lestrade is here,” Sherlock murmured rather close to his ear.

John blinked his eyes open and squinted into the slanted afternoon light. He had the groggy sensation of having napped for too long, but oddly felt better than he had in more than a day. He pushed up from the pillow he’d been napping against, only to find it was sitting on Sherlock’s thigh. He furrowed his brow and gave Sherlock a questioning look.

“You were nodding off. And the position looked uncomfortable. Your shoulder would have been hurting for it.”

He gave a reluctant nod and scratched at his scalp before turning towards the door. Greg drew up slightly, “Jesus, mate.”

John raised his brows and made another questioning sound and the act of making the noise grated on his throat.

“You look like shit.”

“Half of London is as sick,” he croaked.

“Is this from Thursday night?”

John gave a wry smile. “If I sue the Met, think I’ll get worker’s comp?” His voice rasped and scratched, but as awful as it sounded, his throat wasn’t as sore as it had been.

Greg blew out a breath. “Shit, John. Ellie is down with a stomach bug too. Thankfully her mum is dealing with it, but sounds miserable.”

“I’ve had worse.” His voice cracked mid-sentence and John was suddenly taken by the absurdity of the sounds he was making. His giggle even sounded flat or sharp or off-key and out of place enough that Sherlock was giving him an odd look. “I’m fine.”

“Frog in the throat?” Greg asked.

“Mmn,” John nodded and decided to give his voice a rest. He pushed up from the couch and scooped up his mug and pint glass. He could make himself some tea and get a glass of water. His linens were gone from the table when he reached the kitchen, Greg’s blanket wrapped in laundromat plastic in their place. He didn’t bother to ask. The kitchen itself smelled faintly of cleaning products, and John realized that it too had been cleaned. Huh. He filled the kettle and left it to boil, nipping out to the loo.

There was a part of him that felt incredibly lazy and incredibly indulgent for having stayed in his pajamas all day. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d done it; then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been laid up with a vomiting bug. Seemed reasonable. He came back to the kitchen and made himself some chamomile tea, drank a pint of water and returned to the sitting room.

Greg was shuffling a stack of paper back into a folder. “Right, got it all. Thanks Sherlock. I’ll… I’ll get back to you about the other thing later.”

John raised a brow at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes and shrugged in response. Greg patted John’s shoulder. “You mind yourself.”

John nodded, “Ta.” It came out like a squeak and Greg had to bite back a laugh. John smiled and went back to his nest on the couch, tea in hand. By the time he’d settled, Greg was gone, and Sherlock was busy on his laptop again. “What other thing?”

“You sound like a muppet, John. Perhaps you should stop talking.”

“A muppet?” John laughed. “You’re a muppet.”

“Intelligent as always, John. How ever will I match your wit?”

“What’s the thing, Sherlock?” John peeked around Sherlock’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the screen, but Sherlock nudged him back hard enough that he tumbled to the couch.

“It’s not important,” Sherlock muttered and played with the remote until TopGear came on. “There. Watch this. It will occupy your remaining brain cells.”

John muttered something obscene, but curled into the duvet and fluffed the pillow and dropped it back on Sherlock’s lap and flopped gracelessly into a comfortable position.

Sherlock raised a brow, “Satisfied?”

“Keep working on the case for Greg, I’m perfectly content here.” John counted the number of times his voice squeaked and bit back a laugh.

Sherlock rumbled something, but dropped his free hand onto the crown of John’s head, ruffling his hair and lulling him back towards sleep. John managed to watch one episode of TopGear before he gave into the need to rest.

Hunger woke him, as did the smells coming from the kitchen. “Sherlock?” His voice was hardly a whisper and squeak now. Excellent. Laryngitis. Just what would make the day perfect. He pushed up from the couch and wandered toward the clatter of pans.

“Ah, John. Excellent.” A plate clattered onto the table, followed by a bowl. John raised a brow. “Dinner,” Sherlock said with a frown.

“Ah.” Even with as much force behind it as possible, the sound was barely audible and rather high-pitched.

“You still sound ridiculous. Perhaps you should give your vocal chords a rest, hm?” Sherlock complained, sitting in the open chair with a plate of his own. John grinned, but started in on his dinner. “You’re clearly feeling better. I wonder if this means that you’ll change your opinion on my proclivity for remaining in my dressing gowns during the day.” John gave him a dark look. “No? No. Clearly not. That’s what? A luxury of the invalids?”

John pulled a face.

“Oh please,” Sherlock muttered. “It will pass. You’ll be back to tackling strength in no time.”

John wet his lips and frowned.

“No. I don’t mean that you should endeavor to tackle all of our suspects. In fact, if you could possibly attempt to not roll yourself into a pond for the foreseeable future that would be lovely.”

The vocal objection John made sounded like a peep.

“I never said you did it on purpose. I’m simply pointing out that it was rather inconvenient for everyone involved. And while I have no desire to ease the way of murderers and malcontents, I do so look out for my own convenience.”

John sighed.

“Yes,” Sherlock said seriously. “This is exactly what it’s like when you’re not here. Now you understand why I find it so tedious.”

It was a creaky laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Sherlock shrugged. “Obviously minus the cooking and cleaning. Are you done?”

John tilted his head. He’d had plenty to eat and shockingly, he was starting to feel pleasantly tired again.

Sherlock cleared the dishes and gestured towards the bedroom. “Go on. If you go back to the couch, you’ll only fall asleep there, and I’m done carrying you places.”

John made a grumbling sound.

“Oh, yes, clearly. It wasn’t carrying. I simply dragged you off the floor last night. I would never carry you.”

John snorted.

“Does that appease your sense of self-sufficiency? Splendid. Go on then. And take the comforter with you, please.”

A please, that was rare enough. John collected the duvet and dragged it behind himself into Sherlock’s room. He tossed the giant thing onto the bed, climbed up and into the blankets, and curled up into a ball in the middle of the vast space. He was nearly asleep when he heard Sherlock slip into the room.

It was only a small sound, but Sherlock noticed. “Hush, go back to sleep.” John huffed into the pillow and burrowed his face into the soft down. When the bed dipped under the weight of another person, John murmured again a hand squeezed his shoulder. “Just because you’ve been doing nothing but sleep for the past day, it doesn’t mean everyone else has. Sleep.” It made sense. Sherlock needed to sleep. John was in his bed. Couldn’t be helped. John mumbled and sighed when there were fingers in his hair. And he was back asleep.

He woke up feeling warm. Warm and comfortable and much more like himself. He sniffed and nuzzled into the pillow he’d wrapped himself around. Smelled nice. Smelled like Sherlock. Then again, it was Sherlock’s room. Then the pillow moved and John decided it was time to wake up, and he opened his eyes to a face full of dark curls. Oh. And the pillow moved again, enough to roll over and give John a rather searching look. “Good morning,” he rumbled.

John cleared his throat, but then squeaked and couldn’t make any sensible form of sound.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Still no voice then? I suppose one wouldn’t expect something like that to resolve overnight, no matter how quickly the onset. But clearly you’re not feeling nauseated, you’re no longer febrile, so overall, I’d say it’s an improvement.”

John swallowed. He was right. Always right. He nodded and made an odd peeping noise.

“Ah, well. Forgive me, but I find tending other people rather fatiguing. And the couch isn’t as comfortable as it looks. When I sleep, I prefer to do so in bed. In my bed,” Sherlock raised a brow.

Oh right. Yeah. He was in Sherlock’s bed. He frowned.

“Stop. I won’t have you feeling sorry for yourself. You are not a chore. In fact, one might argue that you expend far too much energy tending to me. It is only fair that I bother with your wellbeing.”

John shook himself. It looked more like he was disagreeing, but he was only trying to parse out that last bit about his own wellbeing.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock scolded. “Who else will make my tea if not you?”

John huffed out a laugh, but it sounded like a croak.

Sherlock grinned. “Idiot.”

John smiled.

“I’m not an idiot. Don’t be ridiculous.”

John’s smile stretched into a grin.

“Shut up.”

John raised a brow.

Sherlock chuckled. “Juvenile.”

John caught his lower lip between his teeth.

And Sherlock’s smile faltered ever so slightly. “Are… You certain you don’t wish to… Talk… About…” Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if the thought were distasteful.

And John’s shoulders shook with restrained and silent laughter.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Sherlock muttered, weaving his fingers into John’s hair. Then he took a breath and waited for John to stop laughing. “Alright?”

John met Sherlock’s gaze very seriously. He nodded slowly. And let out a shrill cheep.

A chuckle burst out of Sherlock’s chest, which only deepened into a full-blown laugh when John tried to give him a scolding glare. The mischief that twinkled in John’s eyes belied the stern look, and he tucked his chin down as he laughed with his whole body.


End file.
